Kitty now made her appearance. She was very pale, but her voice was firm.
“Your horse is at the door, master. Ye’ll be late for market unless you are off at once.” And she added some words in a hoarse whisper.
The farmer mounted his horse and rode off.
His wife was seriously concerned about him. She sat by herself, thinking and trembling. She had never seen him in such a fluster before, and he had not told her who it was that had behaved so ungratefully, nor what it was that he had tried to do. She was greatly puzzled. Who could it be? She could not determine. Possibly he would give her the whole particulars when he returned from market. Any way, she must rest contented for a while—that is, as contented as she could be under the circumstances.
In a few minutes after Ashbrook’s departure, Mr. Fortescue came down stairs. There was an expression of anticipated triumph in his face, cloaked by precaution.
At first Patty’s manners were absent and restrained. She was thinking more of her husband’s violence than of the fascinating young gentleman who was endeavouring to make himself so agreeable. Mr. Fortescue was a little disconcerted at her indifference, the reason for which he could not very well comprehend; but he strove to hold her engaged, and he succeeded so well that in the course of half an hour of his mellifluous conversation all thoughts of her husband were banished from Patty’s mind.
Still she had no idea of doing anything actually wrong. She reasoned to herself that she was fond of being alone with Mr. Fortescue because she liked his conversation, and when her husband was present they talked so much about farming and so little about the world. The association with the Lady Aveline had given her a taste for the gaiety of London life; this, however, had in a measure passed away. She was well satisfied with her present sphere of action; nevertheless, she liked to hear the scandal and gossip which floated about respecting those who move in fashionable society. Mr. Fortescue abounded in anecdote, and seemed to be deeply versed in the movements of great personages. As may be readily supposed, he drew largely upon his imagination, and did not confine himself to the truth. She listened to his discourse, and was charmed. In other words, she wished to gaze into the depths of a horrible abyss, and had invited a murderer of women’s souls to lead her to the brink.
Fortescue soon guided the conversation to topics of fashionable life, and with consummate art drew a sketch of matrimonial intrigue—a sketch in which he took care to introduce none of those dark and terrible tints which form the background of such pictures in real life.
She remembered having heard similar narratives fall from the lips of persons she met with in London, when she sojourned there with Lady Marolyn and Aveline, but these were pure and innocent—no comparison to Mr. Fortescue’s.
And, as an experienced huntsman does not frighten his quarry by riding straight towards it, but rides round and round, gradually lessening the circle, till the deer having become familiarised with the dangerous object, no longer heeds it—so by imperceptible gradations he approached this foolish deer, who sat listening to all his wicked nonsense with open ears and wondering eyes.